Slayer
by Zaik of Wake
Summary: Greg Sanders has a secret. A deadly secret that'll determine the fate of humanity. When the CSIs find out what it is, can they help him or just get caught up in the game?
1. Just Another Night

Damn it all to hell.

They will be looking for him.

He shouldn't have left that note.

If they find the note, they will find him.

He doesn't want to be found.

It wasn't even meant for them.

Damn, he doesn't want to be treated as a child. He is a grown man. He doesn't need them peering over his shoulder, sending him pitied looks. He doesn't. They thought they knew him, they truly did. They had no idea.

He is standing in an alley. His equipment is shoved into his trench coat pocket. It is nothing much. A bright, orange cylinder containing smooth little tablets haflway up. When he sees it, he always thinks the color is inappropriate, considering it's purpose. A sleek, razor-sharp dagger, small and nasty. A gleaming haven in his dark. Finally, and perhaps to the most extent, that little cube. It was small, dark blue, the color of a clear night sky, stars abound. It was smaller than a child's pinky, but the assumption that it was powerless would have you meet your untimely end.

He grunted impatiently and back-kicked the wall he was leaning against. Why weren't they here yet? Only once a nebula moon could they meet, and they were _late_. When he sees them...

He was broken out of his wonderings by a soft moan from behind. Whipping around, a gasp unwillingly left his throat and entered the air.

It is smiling an unearthly, wicked smile. It's gruesome black claws curl drip a sticky red liquid that the he prays is an unfortunate animal's. Slit eyes stare into the young man's own, baring violet teeth, flesh--human flesh--caked in between the many rows. It's tall body--scaly red, yet covered in tufts of magenta and mauve fur--hunched, long, bony legs sliding in preporation to pounce.

He does the same, slowly pulling out the little dagger, swiftly pushing it in between his pointer and middle fingers, one leg in front, one in back, eyes narrowing. His hair, long and dark in the midnight shadows that dance to the soft ballad of the city sounds, blows in the gentle breeze from under his black hat. The hat pushed some hairs down so they covered one of his eyes. His gloved hands quivered in quiet fear. Nobody, not even a Slayer, could not quack at the sight of the Rozanda Jeag; the Wendle's Demons.

It's horrible, hoarse voice boomed from that gnarled face. "This is not a breeding ground for Demons. Why are you here, Slayer?" It demanded, voice hushed. He silently thanked his lucky stars that this was a calmer Demon; not the brutal sort he usually had the luck to run into. Still, he chose not to answer, instead deepening his stance.

"Answer me." The Demon roared, so loud all of Las Vegas seemed to turn and look for the source. He is unfazed by the Jeag's mood swing; many often let their instinct wash over their cunning.

The Demon roared it's mighty roar and attacked. It was so swift he did not have a moment's notice to prepare his counter before the Jeag was on top of him, ready to sing it's horrible purple teeth into his skin. Wrestling his own, knived arm from under It's ginormous hand, he raises the knife--which has been soaked and cut in Kyork's potion--and sinks it into It's scaled, yet soft, back skin. It's terrorized scream gave him the strength to lift It's hulking, heaving body off of his own, long enough to roll out of the landing zone.

It gives him enough notice to pull out the box, the tiny box that is barely a vibration in the air. He mutters the word, the secret word that only he knows, under his breath. He feels the box begin to shake. "Hurry up." He mutters as It pulls the knife from It's back, as It's instinctive beast took over.

He finally decided he couldn't wait anymore for the box to do it's sorcery. Seperating his legs, one arm clenched into a fist at his side, the other raised in front of him, palm flat out, he concentrated intently. He knew it was fading; the power was dying out, and that was why it was so difficult to gather up his strength to unleash his beginning blow. He knew he had to stop his frivolous ways, but...

Snapped out of his thoughts by the Demon's mighty battle cry, the young man, taking a heaving breath, unleashed his power.

Electrifying blue rays shot out of his offered palm, lighting the dark alleyway enough that, if a passerby happened to be walking along, they would've seen both the gelatinous Jear, midway in a pouncing assault, and they young man, hat and hair shielding his face, trench coat billowing in the powerful wind he gave out from his gloved hand. The azul light was both dazzling and horrifying as it connected with the Demon's large and scaly black chest, it's sheer force slamming him into the dead end alley wall. It crumbled under his weight, nearly knocking him out.

To finish the job, the young man gathered up his remaining strength--though he felt himself barely able to stay awake--and pounced. Turning, he ran into the side wall, half-scaled, half-walked up it's two story length at a bullet speed, and, reaching the top, he let his right foot rise kick into the edge of the roof, and left leg rise above his head into a twisted, spiraling cartwheel through the thick Nevada air. His hat now on the ground, his face was quite noticeable, but he failed to notice as his boot cleanly hit the wicked Demon's massive head; successfully rendering him immobile and unconscious.

Landing gracefully on his feet, he swiped up his hat and placed it back on his head, careful to mat the hair over his right eye. Than, with an angry glare into the empty horizan and desolate rooftops, he limped away, despite the shooting pain coming from his leg and arms, as all had suffered damage while pinned down. He had to figure a way to explain the nasty gash on his forehead. It wasn't so big that he couldn't hide it behind his long hair, but it would seem odd, as he usually wore it in spikes.

Damn it. They were there by now, he just knew it. Knocking on his door, slamming it down, perhaps. Reading the letter that had not been for them after receiving another letter that had not been for them. Imagine what they would think he was doing. They probably expected to find a bloody mess and a long silver knife, or an empty orange cylinder rolling around a cold, limp form. That same figure could even be soaked in an overrunning bathtub, eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. God, imagine what they must've thought when they read it...

His clan. That was who it was meant for, not those meddlesome coworkers of his. His clan was called upon months ago, warned of the power failure, warned of the imending danger, warned of the meeting on this very day, at this very location, at this very time. When he gets his hands on them...

No time to fume, he told himself. You must get back before they call the police, their pathetic excuse for protectors. They knew not of real danger--think torture is bad? Wait until they feel the wrath of a Jeag slashing at them, ripping out the blood vein from their wrists...then they can start whining about danger.

He had shaken off his pain to a nagging numbness that left his limp barely noticeable and, with a straight back and confident stare into the apartment complex, he doubted anybody would ask him of his injuries, if anybody in this Sin City were to see or care of such a thing. By the power of all who ruled, he prayed their would be no hassle, that they had not arrived yet, that they would not misinterpret his letter, that he could just lock himself into the apartment and mend his wounds, which still bled freely. He also added that nobody notice the color of the blood, or density, or that it glowed an illuminating glow not unseen on tin foil.

Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit...

There it was. He knew it was coming. He knew it. A truck. A truck he recognized from the lab parking lot as Sara's. Sara Sidle's. The dark-haired, gap-toothed woman humping the boss and who had come to be a close friend. It was parked askew across the No Parking zone, the doors still somewhat hanging open. Damn it all to hell. Son of a bitch. All the other profanities he'd heard them whisper throughout his tim in the lab.

And the pain keeps coming. Someone was walking down the stairs that led to his own room. More than someone. Quite a few someones. Walking in a rythmatic unison, melting together in a perfectly syncing melody. Though he couldn't see their faces, the young man saw the form of their heads staring straight ahead, not even fazed by the bouncing caused by their steep steps. He recognized those looks.

Oh, god, he'd kill them! He was happy they had bothered with ccoming into contact at all, but son of a bitch, they had to...

The group had moved past the stairs and were heading for the truck. Sara climbed into the driver's seat, with Grissom, the boss and her fiancee, in the passenger seat, and the others--Catherine, a mother figure to the young man, Warrick, who always acted icy towards him, and Nick, his best friend--piled into the back. None appeared to say anything as the truck pulled out from it's awkward position and drove off into the night. He knew that, when they went to sleep that night, they'd forget what they'd seen. Though he hadn't been there, he knew exactly how it went down. It wasn't pleasant. He was glad they didn't have to remember.

Trudging up the brick steps, leaving a trail of thin, shimmering liquid behind, he tiredly opened his apartment door, not caring that the lock had been slammed off, or that it was cracked like a head had jutted it, and collapsed against it from the inside, shutting it with his back and sliding to the floor, knees bent.

A small puddle of blood had formed around him before he picked himself up and went into the bathroom. He stitched and bandaged what needed to be stitched and bandaged. Cracked what needed cracking. Whiped what needed whiping. In his position, it had all become routine. It was so boring to him, that in his daze, he failed to notice the arrow that had been stuck to the bathroom door until it whacked him in the head, reopening the gash.

He sighed in frustration. He knew their calling card. Pinned down under the arrows sharp, hand-crafted red tip were two pieces of paper; one being a plain white notebook sheet, crinkled and scribbled on with a dull pencil, the other, under it, was a neon orange piece of computer paper, with neat, blue ink writing a familiar message. He, ignoring the blood pouring down his face and weakening him, yanked out the arrow and threw it to the floor, catching the two sheets.

The first, the notebook paper, was barely legible, but he was used to it.

_G,_

_Sorry we couldn't make it. Problem with them Jeags, y'know, bro? When we got there you were handling one of them pretty well, so we just decided to come here. You've gotta keep a better eye on those fuzz you work with--noisy bunch. Screaming and breaking down the door--didn't know why till after we put them on FMNs (they remember, in case you didn't know. Didn't have all the ingrediants. As far as they know, they came in and freaked out because you were sleeping on the couch, now they feel all stupid. Go along with it) and saw that note you left us. Again, sorry we didn't get it, but could you BE anymore of a drama queen? Blonde lady, by the way, nearly hysterical. Reminds me of Mom, huh?_

_J and M and N all send their props. Take care of yourself, aight? See you at the next meeting--or sooner, by the looks of it. I know what you were saying about the fade...comin' fast..._

_C_

He laughed and shook his head. Finally, they weren't bugging him about when the fade would start--or in M's case, if it would start at all. And he had some new material.

Underneath that note was his own letter--entirely in code. They--his coworkers--must've plucked it from his locker--which he never bothered to lock anymore--and flipped a pancake.

_I can't. It is too much to bear. I cannot keep this up. I must go. Let the blood flow freely...out of control...do something. It is sucking out everything...it will leave me hollow. I must go. I must. I'm sorry. I just have to.  
_It really was a rather dark and suicidal note to the unknowing eye. His clan, however, knew the meanings of it. Blood always stood for the Demons--it meant to let them run free for the time being and come meet. The 'I must go on' stuff was emphasizing the urgency to be there. The sucking--well, it was symbolic to their ever-growing weakness, their loss of power...the Grands, they refused to see it, refused to do anything about it. They had a never-ending source of power, they did not care...did not care if all of them withered away into nothing...

The Demon's gash was really making him dizzy...he had to stitch it up. Tell them he fell down the stairs or something. Get some sleep, he tells himself, picking up his thread and needle, he quickly put a few stitches into the flesh, sealing the hole and ceasing the bloodflow. He would've collapsed into his small bed and burry himself into the meager mattress if it had not been for his pre-set alarm clock blaring that he had to go to work.

"FUCK IT!" He screamed into the empty apartment, using what little strength he had left to crush the wretched clock between his fingers, leaving it as a puddle of scraps beside the bed.

Stripping out of his blood-stained clothes, he changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a black grunge band T-shirt. Muttering curses under his breath, the young man, with his now-spiked hair and big red scar, dragged his car keys and vest out the door with him, abandoning his recovered dagger, the box of pills he had yet to use, and that little box that still wouldn't do anything in his blood-soaked battle suit, wondering when the time will come, when the battle will begin. The label on the vest he carried with him read _Greg Sanders, CSI Level 1._ That was his name. His alias. It was as the mortal world knew him. In the world of Mendle, in the world he ruled with his Demons. And it was Greg who led the rebellion, him and his clan, his family. He was a Rider of the Dominions, a Jumper of the Sky Dragons...he was a Slayer, destined to lead the battle that was to come. Never would he have thought it would've turned out like this.

**It has begun...**


	2. Everyday Exchanges and the Alarm

Greg walked through the LVCL doors with caution, keeping an eye out for any of his colleagues. At twenty-six, he was the youngest CSI on nightshift, possibly in the entire crime lab, and that made it difficult for him to go anywhere unnoticed. Either the older workers were babying him, or the youngers were mercilessly teasing him. He sometimes wondered if they still would if they knew that, at least at one time, could cause a sand storm to roll right into the lab and wash them all away in a pool of quicksand containing fingerprint dust and lysol. It made him happy, somewhat.

Speak of the overbearing devil, there came Nick, going down the hall, eyes on him, more specifically his forehead.

"Hey, man..." He said to Greg, rather awkwardly, "What happened to your...?"

Luckily, with the news of the previous night, Greg had no problem coming up with a new excuse for his battle scar. He frowned at the Texan and raised an eyebrow.

"How soon we forget, Stokes." He did a rather good job of looking annoyed. Nick gave him a confused look. He sighed and shook his spiked head. "What, you don't remember barging into my apartment, thinking I killed myself, and screaming so loud I fell off my couch and hit the table?"

Hell, yeah. Got to love the guilt factor. Nick shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably.

"Yeah...sorry about that, man...bye." He ran off before Greg could get another word out. He mentally laughed. Though it may have been cruel and insensitive of him, he just loved making the human's squirm. It was a pass time of him and his clan. Jubilee had such fun having the water fountain squirt onto the pants of her classmates. As the youngest at aged fifteen, she was perhaps an ounce more mature going about these pranks than Greg himself, who, prior to the draining, made predictions of the outcome of a case, than oh-so coincidentally was never around when they were confirmed. Though nobody mentioned it, he knew they all noticed, and it made them fidgit. He was always a subtle man, making it just noticeable enough for one to see, write off as a coincidence, but was never sure. He fed on discomfort more than outright torture, seeing not knowing as a torture of it's own.

"Greg!" A woman shouted from behind. Greg turned to bear witness of Catherine scuttling down the halls in her heels, a guilty look in her eyes. He plastered on a mocking grin and answered, "Yes, Catherine?" Catherine halted, taken aback by his sarcastic tone. As a mother, she was fully equiped to slap him and tell him to watch his tone, but she didn't. She had it--or, at least thought she had it--coming.

"I--I just wanted to apoligize for last night. I don't know what I was thinking..." She told him, just as David Hodges was walking past in his lab coat.'

"Really? And just what happened last night?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. Greg took the opportunity.

"Yes, Catherine, I'd think the whole class would like to know what happened last night." He mocked, savoring the uncomfortable look on the older woman's face. She stood, dumfounded, long enough for a few other lab techs to gather curiously, before chattering out a response.

"I don't know what I was thinking...I'm the one who found the note and all...getting the others involved like that...God, what an idiot...I'm really sorry, I was just worried..."

"What're you talking about?" Hodges asked, leaning against a table and crossing his arms. Greg grinned. My, how he loved to see them squirm.

"Yes, Catherine," He repeated, "Do elaborate." She stared t him, shocked at the pleasure he was so obviously getting from this.

If it hadn't been for Ecklie, she would've had to explain herself to what was by now the entire nightshift lab tech team.

"All nightshift CSIs, please report to my office in five minutes." He announced stiffly, making a rare appearance in the actual lab. All the CSIs were in earshot, apparently, but they seemed to purposly duck out of Greg's view. If not for his being born with perfect eyesight--better than they could imagine--he wouldn't have even seen Warrick roll his eyes from behind a shelf of old beakers. Catherine and he groaned before bidding the pesturing lab techs ado and heading to the assistant director's office. Warrick and Grissom had already assembled themselves awkwardly on the small couch facing Ecklie's desk, fidgeting. The tension grew so thick it was suffocating when Catherine and, more importantly, Greg joined them. Catherine sat in the remaining cushion on the sofa, while Greg leaned against the doorframe, and for his own amusement, made sure his bandaged forehead was in clear view of the three people. They coughed and shifted uncomfortably in their respective seats as Sara and Nick arrived, their footsteps only piercing the silence for a moment, before they both leaned against the opposite wall, eyes at their feet. Nobody took notice to the fact that Ecklie wasn't actually there until he himself entered last, hair, as usual, greased and combed to try and flatter the balding head. His slimy smile was only succumbed by his nasty voice.

"Hello, Grissom." It was not uncommon for the man to address the nighshift's supervisor rather than the entire team, as in his eyes, they all were fairly menial, but when in a group Grissom was the most important. Grissom smiled his polite, I'm-the-better-man-you-won't-break-me smile.

"What do you want, Conrad?" He asked in his usual mild-mannered voice. The one thing Greg found astounding and most respectable about the man was his ability to stay completely calm and emotionless in the best and worst of times.

Conrad smiled and shook his head slightly, as if Gil had told a particularly humorous wisecrack.

"Nothing in particular, Gil. I was just curious as to why five of my CSIs disappeared in the middle of their shifts and didn't return until the next day." The man leane dback in his seat, raising an eyebrow at his prey.

Those morons actually left in the middle of shift? They were_ that _panicked? Greg thought to himself, though he couldn't help but feel flattered. They did care, didn't they? What would they do when he was transferred to another field? When that happened, one was forced by the law of Mendle to change their identities and put their old ones to rest, meaning, at some point, Greg Sanders would have to die. Being fairly young, Greg had only had a few alias, none of which had gone well or lasted long. In particular, his persona as Jacob Resh, but that's another story for another day.

Snapping out of his daydream, Greg saw that Grissom had been in the middle of an explanation, appearing to have been woven from the wind.

"--I couldn't take that kind of risk, so I sent my whole team, who happened to be in the lab at the time, in to check it for any hostages. As you might've guessed, the letter was a farce, not even worth a report." Grissom's voice had gone from serene to emotionless in the time it took to say 'team'. So, he was embarrassed too, huh? Greg could have fun with this.

"Hey, Griss," H added, making sure every head had snapped to his direction before continuing, "Remember that funny thing you said on the way back? About the note?" Grissom sent him a look of unadulterated rage, while Nick and Catherine shrugged, knowing they had it coming.

"I thought you had last night off?" Ecklie said, raising an eyebrow. Damn, damn, damn.

"I did," He said after a moment of processing his thoughts, "Nick told me about it. Come on, Nick, you tell it better." The young man turned to his Texan friend, who's expression had changed from slack to twisted in anger. Greg was nearly giddy as Nick scrambled to make something up.

"Well...so we were looking at the note...y'know, the one that punk'd us...when Griss said...um...'We've been punk'd!'" It was truly a pathetic attempt, but was enough for Ecklie.

"Yes, Stokes, that sure was funny," the middle-aged man said sarcasticly, "Grissom, you know you're always supposed to write the papers. And if you ever get a kidnapping tip, you come to me first..." Greg had spaced out, as he did not want to hear the mother-like scorning Ecklie was resiting to his teammates.

A loud, overpowering buzz leaked into Greg's ears, causing him to flinch and yelp. The other six in the room, who were currently debating the reason they had to show Ecklie the kidnapping note, turned to look at him once again.

He knew what that sound meant. He had heard it so many times before, ringing in his ears. Often, it broke his eardrums during work, giving him no choice but to run off to heed it's call. As a slayer, he was born with the alarm system to warn him of imending Demons, but one of the unlucky ones to have it in the form of an obnoxious ring in his head. Others in his clan were bestowed with a burst of inward energy, or a flash of blood red in the eyes of the nearest person, whoever they may be. But not Greg. He was stuck with the ringing that was currently growing louder and louder until it was all he could hear.

It wasn't until Warrick turned and asked him something that he realized his eyes were squeezed shut and he was leaning against the doorframe harder, close to collapsing. To the untrained eye, it would seem as though he were about to faint from blood lost.

"I really...I really have to go..." Greg gasped as a migraine formed. The problem with this type of alarm was that, if you waited too long, it could render you unconscious for hours.

With a preperation out take of breath, he ran out of Ecklie's office, barely aware of someone calling after him, not from sound, but from the vibration made from the volume. Most definately Ecklie himself, ready to give him hell when he returned.

He grabbed his gear from his locker before he left. Mig had better have a good reason for this...

A\N-Another confusing chapter, I'm sure. On my way to 100 reviews. In my story, Greg is 26 and a CSI, not 31. Please tell me what you found confusing and I'll explain in the next chapter. G'day.


	3. A Short Meeting and the Really Big Cliff

A\N-This is an OC and magic-heavy chapter. Just warning you all.

"This'd better be good!" Greg screamed into the dark alleyway, the very same of the night before. Remnants of his Demon rumble still littered the grimy dead end, but asides from that and his own stretched shadow, it appeared to be empty. Impatiently, Greg pulled up the hood of the black sweatshirt he had picked up over his head, letting it partially cover his darkened eyes. Anger ravaged his soul five minutes later, when not a Demon nor a clan member had arrived. His head had stopped throbbing long since, but it's effects were in full swing. Every few instances, he had to swagger against the brick wall to stand, or rub his temple as another painful stab overcame his senses.

At one point, these throbs got so bad, his vision speckled black and he did not notice the petite figure, dark and billowing, leap from the Vegas rooftops, a small creature flying beside her effortlessly, neither making a peep.

The figure, a young she, by the looks, gracefully flipped to the ground behind Greg, who was still hunched against the wall, eyes closed. Slowly, the girl, wearing a flowing black cape, reached up to remove her hood. Underneath revealed a mane of wavy black hair, falling past her bony shoulders. Her serious eyes, black as her hair, but with a plethora of flashing colors instead of a pupil. Her lips, full and thin at the same time, were curved into a half-smile at the pained young man before her.

"Headache?" Her voice was rich, lustrious, that of a singer, yet at the same time mature and knowledgible, far beyond her obviously young, possibly teenage, years.

Greg whipped around, hissing as the tail end of his after-effects rang in his ears. Hood still concealing him, he studied the young girl up and down before smiling warmly.

"Hey, Nikki." He greeted his friend tiredly, opening his arms. The girl's smile stretched into a grin; she ran into them like a blanket on a cold day.

"Hi, Greg!" She chirped, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing. They parted after a moment, and just stared at each other.

"Did you get called down too?" He asked her, avoiding her flashing pupils and focusing on her mouth.

"Yeah. Didn't you call it?" She asked, perplexed. As leader, he was usually the one to call these meetings.

"If I did, would I be having this migraine that's coming back around again." Greg groaned, falling back to his spot on the wall and rubbing his specking eyes. The one called Nikki's eyes flashed more rapidly, until it all seemed to be one light blur. Both people groaned and clutched their respective areas of interest.

"Who did, then?" Nikki gasped, dizzied by her flashes. Greg sighed to calm himself before answering.

"I gave the charm to Mig for emergancies. This'd better be good..." He muttered for the second time that hour. Nikki removed her cape altogether, letting it drop to the ground. A light lit in her mind.

"Oh, where'd Azul go?" She gasped, twirling rapidly in every direction, looking for her scaly companion.

Yes, scaly. In all of his purple-wing glory, Azul the Dwarf Dragon glided through the Nevada sky, which only held a final quiver of a star. His fire-like blue hair ran along with his tiny green body, only seperated by the purple wings sprouting out of it, the skin material held by green spine. Azul was truly a magnificent dragon, but unable to reach potential due to his status as 'dawrf'--the very lowest ranking a dragon may earn at the age of three-hundred. He had been Nikki's loyal companion since his home-hatching, accompanying the teenager wherever she may venture--though Nikki herself was sometimes crestfallen that she may not ride him along the bright blue sky like her clan, who all had larger Colonel dragons. It mattered not, for she loved Azul with her heart, and never would she trade him for the largest of all the highest-ranking Marvel dragons.

"Hey, little bud!" Greg greeted the small creature, letting him land on his shoulder and claw back his hood to get a good look at his head. Nikki hissed at the bandage.

"Did Jube do that?" She asked, clenching her teeth at the bit of scabbing flesh peeking out. A light tap appointed their attention from behind.

"I take offense to that!" A sarcastic voice finalized the scene. There stood a spiky-haired teen, no older than fourteen, in a black ski cap, cropped black T-shirt, short leather mini-skirt with an equipment belt hanging off the hip, and knee-high steel-toed boots. Her hair was firy red and brown, in chunky dread locks cascading down her shoulders underneath the cap. Her chocolate skin blended with her attire well.

"Is it really necessary to dress like a tramp?" Nikki, a seventeen-year-old protege, asked the young Jubilee, expert trickster and part nymph.

"It matched the belt--and you dress like a vampire slayer, you should talk!"

It was true. Though Nikki herself was a distant part vampire--no slayer has ever been purebred, but a combination of a human-like creature--she had taken to dressing like the one named Buffy. In a pair of skinny black jeans with laced back boots, her top nothing more than a mixture of fire repelant and spear repelant tape, the two black rolls crisscrossing into a fairly decent halter top. A glowing green orb hung from a chain around her neck.

"Shut up!" She snapped, flaring her sharp teeth. Jube clenched her fists as dark orange claws grew from the fingertips.

Greg intercepted the impending scrap. "Take it out on Mig, he's the one who called us out!"

"Well, I guess I know where we stand!" An obnoxiously slack, accented voice sniped from behind. The three whirled around to see--surprise--a dark figure standing in the corner.

"That is so getting old." Greg mumbled warily as his two female companions ran into the open arms of Miguel, with his long black hair, black leather jacket, and hopelessly torn blue jeans. The twenty-one-year-old man, originally a resented Mexican Flame, was now looked upon in the clan as second in command, the one to take over, should anything happen to ther fearless Greg.

"What do you want? I was right in the middle of work." Greg asked, tire and annoyance drenching his words. Mig's face darkened, and he let go of Nikki and Jube, who knew that if Mig was serious, it was a serious situation. Jube took off her cap and wrapped it around her nails, which were slowly and painfully decreasing in size.

"It's about the draining." He said, in a gravelly stern voice. Greg glanced around.

"We have to wait for Cranre." He ordered, the flapping wings of Azul suddenly irritating the shit out of him. Mig sighed.

"Fine. Where's Rok?" He asked, in referance to his own Colonel dragon. On his own set of cue cards, the large, yet sculking dragoin crept from behind a dumpster, his slanted yellow eyes narrowed to slits on the side of his face. His fire red wings were folded on his slanted back, the spiny magenta tips touching his powerful hind legs. His mane, a mass of wild orange, stook up on top of his head. Mig smiled at his friend and beckoned for him to come over. He obeyed happily, landing besides the tiny Azul. No sooner had the four friends reaquanted than a slick being pounded itself into the road, rippling and cracking the empty cement.

"Cran's here!" It sang obnoxiously. Greg and Nikki ran over and covered his mouth, shushing him madly as they dragged him into the safe alley's blanket.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Greg yelled at the part-Jonler--one who can bend earth--in frustration, slapping him in the head. Cran grumbled but straightened his skinny teenage body--Greg and Mig were the only adults in the clan--and ran a hand through his long, skater-dudeish brown hair, pulling his pants up so that his boxers could still be seen. He wore no shirt. Greg couldn't help but notice Jube eyeing the shirtless fifteen-year-old, and smiled at the thought.

"Okay." Mig snapped him out of his thoughts. "As you all may know, their has been some...occurences over the past few months that have been troubling us."

"Oh, you mean the whole Mendle draining our power till we're little husks on his wall situation?" Cran asked, grinning a cheeky grin. Nikki slapped him on the head and shushed him.

"Well...yeah." Greg finished. Mig cleared his throat.

"Why can't we just storm the Empire and kick some Demon ass?" Jube asked, cracking her knuckles. Indeed, it would be quite easy for that clan and the others at their own headquarters--the Rebellion--to storm the dictator Mendle's Empire building and just randomly take them down. The sitch was that Mendle himself was more powerful than all those Slayers combined, only one person has the born ability to take him down.

Have I mentioned it was our very own Greg Sanders?  
"We just can't." Greg sighed. He and Jube had had this argument for many a year. She did not get that it would take careful planning in order to take down the notorious Mendle, who made his way to the top by deceit and fib. He did not want to send thousands of clans meet their demise in a disorganized frenzy.

"Well, then, this is just getting pointless!" Cran exclaimed, crossing his arms in pout. Mig gritted his teeth.

"Guys, I have news!" He said.

But, at that moment, he never got a chance.

Without warning, a loud bang erupted in their ears. Moments later, a dashing fireball ripped the calm air, landing inches from Greg's head.

Demons, three hulking Jeags, were standing in the alley. The one in the middle, the mightiest of them all, had steam wafting from it's mouth. They all were in fighting stances.

"Crap!" Nikki screamed in frustration, snatching up her cape and pinning it around her neck, ignoring the snickers of Jube. Azul rested on her hooded head, hind legs spread apart in war.

Before another fireball could be hurtled, Greg unwielded his dagger and threw it through the air. It hit the left Demon's head, right in the artery. His neck spurted dark red blood as the heaving body fell to the ground; Jube and Cran whooped.

As if a bell sounded, the skilled Slayers began their work. Nikki pounced on the right one, clinging to it's neck so as to drag it to the ground. Cran, Jube, and Azul joined her in the brawl the Demon was putting up, attemtping to keep it's flailing, razor claws under control.

Mig and Greg duoed on the middle, the fiercest one. Somersaulting in the air, Greg cleanly landed in his shoulder, bringing him to the ground with a thud. It brought it's claw down on his arm, slashing the skin with no mercy. Mig intercepted, squeezing it's wrist until the sheer forced snapped it in half, a pile of bones in a scaly bag.

Rok had joined Jube, Crane, Nikki, and Azul in their attempt to pin the flailing beast down, to avail. He sunk his claws into the monster's chest, letting blood gush out in torrents. Taking the opporitunity, Nikki wielded her own dagger and slashed the artery of it's thick neck. It's eyes drained until they were nothing but black sockets; the creature was dead as dead could be.

Mig and Greg had no such luck. With a final, frustrated attempt at victory, Greg--now with several slashes on his chest and back, bruising for color, and no doubt a broken limp or two--limped to the dead Demon and retrieved his dagger, felling the familiar handle tingle in his grasp.

He let it sail, sail through the heavy night air, into the rising Jeag. It screamed it's last scream before falling to the ground, besides the kneeling Mig.

Panting, Greg glanced into the sky. The sun began to rise.

"I've...I've got to go." He sighed, pulling up his torn sleeve. Nikki stumbled to her feet, dragging Jube and Cran with her; the dragons pulled themsleves together. Mig, the least damaged, jumped up and joined the circle of young people gathering.

"Me too...school tomorrow." Nikki mumbled. Without another word, she numbly jumped to the roof and was out of site; Azul trailing after her.

They dispersed, none thinking about how abrupt and choppy this meeting was, or what Mig's information was.

None noticed the mighty middle Demon creep up, pull the dagger out, and look around. And none noticed it following Greg on his venture--

To the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

A\N-Choppy at the end, I know, I'm sorry I suck so horribly!


	4. Options

_Alright, Sanders_, Greg told himself, hovering at the lab's entrance, _Turn it on them. Make them seem stupid. Not at all like you're a moody spaz who just ran out of there without so much as an excuse. You've done it before, dammit, no wussing out!_

Sighing, Greg opened the doors and strode down the scurrying halls, not giving any a second glance. They, to his relief, returned the favor. That is, besides drooling at his appearance.

"Hello, Nick." He greeted his friend formally, as they passed while he wheeled around the corner. With an unbelievable momentum, Nick spun around and gaped.

"What--dude, what happened to you!" He boomed. Greg didn't know if this was concerning his bloody body or the many hours between then and the Ecklie situation.

Feign innocence, was his motto. Act like the ditzy blonde.

"Whatever do you mean?" He blinked. Nick's eyes bugged.

"Well," he was barely above a whisper in his response, "You run out of Ecklie's office like your about to throw up, then come back _three hours_," had it been that long? "later looking like you were jumped by Nessie!"

"What would Nessie be doing in Vegas?" Greg mocked, grinning. In return, Nick yielded him by the arm--the one that wasn't in tatters, that is--and dragged him around the corner to the break room, where he found himself pushed onto the couch and forced to sit while Nick went riffling in the cabinets for, no doubt, a first aid kit.

"What the hell happened, man?" The Texan asked, emerging with a wrap of gauze and setting to work.

Greg flinched. What Nick failed to realize was that, though not visible to his eye, the arm being wrapped in thick cloth was in crumbs. Had his skin not been twice as thick as a human being's, he would've been forced to amputate it. The only thing Nick saw, though, was a bruised arm, possibly a fracture.

"Seriously, man, what the hell happened?" Nick asked again, noticing Greg's distant face.

"Car accident, horrible. I'm telling you, Nick, you should really wear a seat belt." Nick punched Greg in the arm, who yelped in agony.

"We really should get you to a hospital." Nick pointed out, examining the shattered arm and gashes. Before Greg could retort, a crash sounded in the hall, followed by a scream.

"What the hell?" Nick got up and walked outside, leaving Greg to his thoughts.

_Dammit, _He mused, _How the hell am I supposed to fix this?_

With a soft moan, he lifted his arm and focused on the skin visible from his rolled-up sleeve.

"This'd better work…" He mumbled, thinking back to the spell Nikki forced him to learn the year previous, following a rather nasty Demon ambush. God, he hated those things.

Whispering the words--ones that, told to you, gentle readers, would make your skin boil and eyes bleed--Greg, with a hiss, whipped his arm through the air. In an instance, the bones connected by an invisible glue. The cuts swarming his body faded to nothing, the blood evaporating into oblivion.

Just as he was stretching his arm to make the tingle go away, an earth-shattering crash and scream broke his silence.

Getting up, Greg crept to the window peaking out into the hall, and gaped.

A Demon. To be more specific, the Demon he had killed. Or thought he did.

It snarled at the screaming Crime Lab employees, howling it's rage. Behind it, Nick, Warrick, and Catherine huddled, eyes wide. Grissom and Sara could be seen peaking from his office window, Sara near-tears. The lab techs and detectives were fleeing in the other direction, some for the fire exits, some for the windows. The whole sight was enough to sink Greg's heart.

How the hell did it find him? The things were killing machines, once they were in their primal state, they would obliterate everyone in their path.

Greg weighed his options. He could leave it alone, summon the others to take care of the situation, feign innocence as always. Or…

With a sigh, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the blood-drenched dagger and still-glowing cube, and made for the door.

A\N-Short, suck-ish chapter, but I was…bored, I guess. Review.


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